


Night Falls

by Dodoa



Series: Aftermath [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fixing this is going to take a few more of these, Gen, Insomnia, John-centric, Not A Fix-It, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Season/Series 04, Self-Hatred, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 18:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10645284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dodoa/pseuds/Dodoa
Summary: John is not going to sleep tonight.Inspired by "Semi-Automatic" by Twenty-One-Pilots.





	Night Falls

_Night falls with gravity,  
The earth turns from sanity_

Night was, without doubt, the worst part of the day. John had been dreading this one ever since Sherlock had fallen asleep on his sofa and thereby sentenced him to face it alone. Because John was not going to sleep tonight. He didn’t think Sherlock had meant to, either, judging by how long he’d fought it, but he was still recovering from the havoc the drugs had wreaked on his body and staying up two nights in a row had turned out to be impossible.

Last night they’d kept each other company after returning from Musgrave Hall. They’d talked in whispers, because some things couldn’t be spoken about in anything but the faintest of tones. Despite the halting and the hesitance, John had come to some conclusions that he wished weren’t so plausible. Things he felt the need to address, but couldn’t, for the life of him, say out loud, that would only come out at night to haunt him.

But neither of them had been alone last night. Tonight, though, John felt alone. Rosie was asleep in her room, Sherlock was asleep on the sofa and John didn’t know how he’d ever sleep again. Even before the latest disaster, he hadn’t been sleeping much, definitely not in their – his. It was only his bed now. But could he really call it his, when he hadn’t actually slept there since it had become only his? Maybe that was why he couldn’t even entertain the thought of sleeping there alone, like that would make it real, more real than he could stand, as if it wasn’t real already. As if there wasn’t a hole in his life already, as if it would mean sealing that hole shut, so it couldn’t be filled again.

That’s why he usually passed out on the sofa when he couldn’t stay awake any longer, or when the scotch had done its job. But tonight, and probably for the foreseeable future, until Baker Street was inhabitable again, the sofa was Sherlock’s and alcohol wasn’t an option, not when Rosie was there. For all the ways he had already failed her in her short life, this was the one thing he’d sworn himself he would never do. He would not turn into his father.

John knew he would have to sleep at some point, but that point would not be reached tonight. He wasn’t ready to face sleep yet, because lately sleep was synonymous with nightmares and with the overabundance of triggers over the last few days, John, very emphatically, did not want to know what his subconscious would cook up as soon as he closed his eyes. Besides, Sherlock needed a full night’s sleep and he wouldn’t get that if John woke up screaming in the middle of the night.

For the first few hours of the night John vacillated between the living room and the nursery, restless and unable to let either Sherlock or Rosie out of his sight for more than a few minutes, driven by an irrational fear that if he didn’t keep an eye on them, they would be snatched away, vanish into thin air, like it had happened too many times before. Of course he couldn’t keep doing that for the rest of the night. He’d been on his feet all day, helping Sherlock and Mrs Hudson organise the restoration of 221 Baker Street and yesterday, well the less he thought about yesterday the better. All in all he was beyond exhaustion, and pacing all night simply wasn’t going to happen. He’d have to at least sit down at some point. Knowing that didn’t make him stop, though. It wasn’t until his heavy feet got caught on the carpet in the hall and he stumbled and fell, that he admitted defeat.

It was a wonder that neither Sherlock nor Rosie had woken up at the noise and John didn’t want to push his luck, so he grabbed the baby monitor and settled down in his armchair in the living room, to wait out the rest of the night.

He should have just put Rosie down in the travel cot in the living room, like he had last night. John knew she was fine, he’d checked on her not even five minutes ago and he’d be able to hear anything that happened, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something would happen if he didn’t make sure. But now that he was sitting down, he wasn’t entirely sure his legs would take his weight if he tried to get up again. So he stayed in the living room simultaneously feeling like he was failing his daughter all over again, because he didn’t have the energy to get up and check on her and feeling pathetic because he even felt the need to, when he knew perfectly well that she was as safe as she could possibly be.

_Taking my only friend I know,  
He leaves a lot, his name is hope._

To keep himself from panicking about Rosie he focused on Sherlock, who was sleeping on the other side of the room. John didn’t know where he’d be without him. Dead, probably, or at least following in his fathers footsteps. It was a wonder that Sherlock was still there, in John’s life, after everything John had done to him. John certainly didn’t deserve him, but since apparently he was what John was getting, he’d promised to do better from now on, to be the friend Sherlock deserved.

_I’m never what I like_

He doubted he’d succeed. After all he’d never managed to live up to his own standards, he’d always been aware of that. He’d always known that he wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to be. He’d been able to live with himself, though. But lately, when he looked in the mirror he saw everything he’d sworn he would never turn into. He’d become the kind of man he despised and he didn’t know how to undo the damage. That was why he’d attempted to say goodbye to Sherlock in the hospital, because he only ever destroyed the ones he loved and everyone would be better off if he silently removed himself from their lives. Everyone else hadn’t realised the truth of that yet, though, and of course he was a selfish bastard, still wanting all the things he didn’t deserve and ultimately too weak to let them go.

_I’m double sided_

John didn’t know how he’d fooled everyone into thinking he was a good person, when it was so far from the truth. They all just saw the doctor, the saver of lives, maybe they got as far as the soldier, the protector, but somehow no one, not even Sherlock or Mary had ever seen past those, to the other side of him, the angry, violent, dark and selfish side. He’d become too good at hiding all the parts of himself he despised so much, so that now, even if someone did get a glimpse of it, or even if they got a good long look, even if he made them see it, feel it, even if he told them to their face with words or fists, they dismissed it, ignored it and forgave him when he didn’t deserve it.

He’d tried to talk to Greg after he’d lost control in the morgue, but Greg had only been interested in what Sherlock had done, even though Sherlock was the one who hadn’t hurt anyone but himself. And really that had been John’s fault too, in blaming Sherlock for Mary’s death, he had caused the relapse just as surely as he had caused the bruises and the split skin. John wasn’t sure what he’d wanted to achieve by telling Greg. Certainly not absolution, he knew he didn’t deserve that. Assault charges, possibly, he certainly did deserve those, but they weren’t forthcoming, not even a threat of them. When Mycroft had called him, later, back at the hospital where he was trying to say goodbye, he’d assumed he’d get a stern warning to ‘stay away from my brother’ at the very least. He’d even entertained the idea that he was about to be disappeared, shot in a secret location, his existence erased from the face of the earth. He wouldn’t have objected.

Sherlock had been even less interested in listening, cutting him off whenever John tried to apologise, claiming that it had all been part of the plan and John had pretended to believe him. He hadn’t had the guts to call Sherlock out on the lie or to ask why Sherlock didn’t want to hear his apology, because he already knew the answer. What he’d done was so deplorable, that there could be no forgiveness, that the only way to move on from it with some semblance of their friendship still intact was to bury what had happened, because confronting it would only serve to tear them apart. So instead of apologizing and facing the consequences like he should, John had cowardly settled for telling Sherlock that Mary’s death wasn’t his fault. It was too little too late. John could tell that Sherlock didn’t believe him.

_And I just can’t hide,  
I kind of like it when I make you cry._

And why should he? Why should Sherlock believe that John hadn’t meant it when it had only taken him a second’s consideration to put all the blame on Sherlock’s shoulders and even after ample time to come round hadn’t? When John had made his feelings clear twice, once with the letter and once with his fists? When Sherlock had seen the sick pleasure of letting out all of his rage and knowing he was making someone else just as broken as he himself was, of hurting the one person, he’d for the longest time believed to be indestructible.

That was the image Sherlock had wanted him to see, the deduction machine, the sociopath and in accepting that mask, John had failed him. Oh, he hadn’t believed it, not fully. He’d always known that there was something else underneath, but knowing that hadn’t been enough, because he never truly acknowledged it. Not to himself and certainly not to Sherlock. It had been easier to take it all at face value, to believe that nothing he could do could truly hurt his best friend. At the same time he’d been delighted at every glimpse past that cool surface he got, had felt a thrill every single time he’d seen Sherlock care for something other than the game, care about people, care about John. If someone had asked him if he wanted to hurt Sherlock, he’d have denied it vehemently, and he didn’t, he’d never wanted to see him hurt, he’d just wanted to see him feel, to prove he wasn’t the machine everyone believed he was, that even John, sometimes, in his most uncharitable moments, feared he was and somewhere along the way he’d stopped caring about the means to that end.

_‘Cause I’m twisted up, I’m twisted up inside._

Sherlock had suggested last night, the one time he hadn’t refused to talk about the issue completely, that John snapping in the morgue had been a direct result of Eurus’s manipulations. And while John didn’t doubt that she’d have been capable, he knew that it hadn’t been her influence. She might have helped it along a bit, but in the end that had been all John. It wasn’t like this was the first time something like this had happened. He’d lost control before, no outside influence needed. The violence was in his blood after all, no matter how much he hated it. The first time he’d lost it, when for the first time it had been his father who’d ‘fallen down the stairs’, instead or his mother or Harry or himself, he’d thought he’d broken the pattern, had been proud of himself. As far as John knew, his father had never laid a hand on any part of his family again and John had celebrated his victory. It wasn’t until much later that he realised that he hadn’t so much broken the pattern than switched roles.

He’d had a bit of a reputation in uni and even more so in the army: ‘Don’t fuck with Watson, he’s scary when he’s angry’, they’d thought it was amusing, excused it as the defence mechanism of the shortest guy in the group, of the doctor among soldiers and John had made sure to keep it that way, to stay out of physical fights, so it didn’t matter that he couldn’t always be trusted to stop. And for the most part it was fine. As long as the fighting was happening in a controlled environment, as long as it was planned, he was fine, he was in control. During training sessions and even in combat he could control how much damage he was doing without a problem. It was only when he was really truly angry and caught off guard that he lost control. He scared himself on those occasions.

Never as much as the last time, though. He’d never hurt someone he cared about that badly before. Strangers, yes, people who were threatening those he cared about or had sworn to protect, absolutely, and in those cases the violence had always seemed somewhat justifiable, maybe not quite to the extent it had happened, but at least in general. With Sherlock it absolutely wasn’t. Sure, the first split second reaction of stopping him and making sure he didn’t try to kill Culverton again, that had been necessary. Everything after that had been inexcusable.

_The horrors of the night melt away_  
_Under the warm glow of survival of the day_  
_Then we move on._

It had been excused though. Miraculously he had been forgiven or at least his actions forgotten by everyone but himself. Outwardly it had seemed like things might actually be somewhat okay again at some point. Sherlock had started to recover from both the blows and the drugs. John had managed to communicate at least some of the things he needed Sherlock to know. At least he hoped so. He’d tried to let his actions speak where he couldn’t find the words, but he wasn’t always sure if Sherlock understood what he was trying to say.

All in all, things had slowly been getting better, both between them and in general and John had started to trust the peace.

_My shadow grows taller along with my fears  
And my frame shrinks smaller as night grows near._

Of course that was when the next catastrophe hit. John wasn’t even that surprised when his therapist turned out to be Sherlock’s homicidal sister and everything came crushing down again. Sure the details were surprising, but the overall theme of death and destruction had been quite expected. He’d hoped to get a bit more time before everything went to shit again this time around, but he’d never really doubted that it would happen eventually. It always did, most of the time a year or two was all he got, before the next catastrophe hit. He’d stopped expecting good things to last, because every time he thought he’d like things to stay like they were for the foreseeable future everything would change again and usually not for the better.

_When the sun is climbing window sills_  
_And the silver lining rides the hills_  
_I will be saved for one whole day_  
_Until the sun makes the hills its grave._

They’d moved a lot when he was in school. He’d have to leave all his friends behind every time his father got a new job. So he’d learned to make friends quickly but not to get too attached, because he’d lose them anyway after a while. Sure, sometimes they’d written letters back and forth for a while after he’d moved away, but it never lasted and at some point there hadn’t been a reply anymore, so John had stopped trying to stay in contact because a clean break hurt less than waiting for a letter that would never come.

He’d thought he’d finally get some stability when he’d left for med-school, but halfway through his second year his father had died of a heart attack and, whatever else his father had done, the one thing that could be said in his favour was that he’d brought enough money home to send his kids to uni and kept a tight hold on the family’s finances. After he was gone, the money he’d set aside lasted barely until the end of John’s second year. His mother had never told him where it had gone, just ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again, but John suspected that between the two of them his mother and Harry had almost managed to drink away his career before it had properly begun. That’s how he’d joined the army. They were offering to pay for the rest of his studies and he was in no position to refuse.

The army was still the longest stable period in his life. Well for certain values of stability, anyway. He’d started to believe that things could stay like that, maybe not for the rest of his life, but for the foreseeable future and he’d been content with that. And then he’d been shot. He’d had to start over, again. Sherlock had helped with that. Their life had provided a similar unstable stability to the army and just like the army it hadn’t lasted, because Sherlock had to go and throw himself off a roof.

And then he’d met Mary and she’d made everything just a little bit better, a little more bearable and John had started thinking that he’d be alright again eventually and that maybe, just maybe he’d be allowed to keep this life for once. He should have known that that wasn’t how his life worked.

Deep down inside, he knew he was only ever going to get short glimpses of what true happiness might look like, little intermezzos of calm between the storms, before it was taken away, again, and he was left to pick up the pieces, again. And with every iteration of this dance there seemed to be less of him left to pick up and glue back together and every time it was harder to get back up, to rebuild, knowing that before too long everything would be knocked down again.

He was never allowed to keep what he treasured.

He wasn’t supposed to be happy.

He didn’t deserve it.

John knew, at some point he wouldn’t be able to get up again, one day it would be too much. Maybe the next time everything went to shit would be the last, because he wouldn’t even try to rebuild his life and then there wouldn’t be anything left for the next storm to destroy.

_By the time the night wears off_  
_The dust is down and shadows burn_  
_I will rise and stand my ground_  
_Waiting for the night’s return._

But this wasn’t that time. This wasn’t the time he stayed down. Rosie had already lost her mother, probably wouldn’t even remember her, she at least deserved to have her father in her life and present and everything his own father hadn’t been. Sherlock was counting on him to be there too, still trusting him for reasons John didn’t understand and he’d sworn himself to never betray that trust again. He’d die before that happened.

There were people who needed him, and he’d be there as long as they needed him to be. He’d pick up the pieces, his own and theirs too, if necessary, as often as he needed to, and he’d make sure to be prepared the next time, so that maybe he’d be enough this time, so maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to avert it, or at least limit the damage, next time.

Because there always, always was a next time, he’d learned that much.

But for now the sun was coming up a new day was breaking and John could hear Rosie stir through the baby monitor. He’d made it through the night and there was a busy day ahead. The storms of the future would have to wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes it's another Twenty-One-Pilots song.  
> No I'm not obsessed. Okay maybe a little bit, but this song just fit so perfectly for what I wanted this story to do, I barely had to cut any lines.


End file.
